He stood at the end
of the crowded middle school hallway, his lifeless eyes boring a hole into me.
Eyes of the walking dead. Body of any other pre-teenager. Everyone around us
hurried and bustled, completely unaware of him.

He staggered toward
me, his head hung low and the hood of his sweatshirt now shrouding his face.
Methodically, his feet dragged with every step, as if he forced them on, using
perpetual motion to push down the hall. He walked like a pallbearer carries the
casket of his dead mother.

I wanted to run, to
hide, to get as far away from the school as I could, but my feet had sunk down
into the tiles of the hallway as if I wore cement shoes. They wouldn’t even
budge. Not even a single crack.

He adjusted the strap
of his backpack as we passed. I stood there, unable to move, as the boy’s
exposed hand brushed against my bare shoulder. The touch only lasted a
millisecond, but it hit me with the force of a collision that ripped through me
and doubled me over.

My chest was
imploding. Darkness filled my head and my limbs, the pit of my stomach, and
choked down my throat.

“Sorry,” he mumbled
as passed.

The hallway pushed in
on me, squeezing me like a python suffocating its prey, but the world felt
distant, like all its inhabitants had turned their back on me.The darkness consumed me, seeped through my
skin like thick, cold tar. It filled me with uncontrollable grief and isolation
that weighed down my whole frame and soul. I could feel my eyes drying,
cracking, from the months of crying the boy had endured. My whole body wanted to
escape itself.

I couldn’t live like
this. There had to be a way out. I would do anything to make this feeling
stop.

I clutched my chest,
holding my insides in.

Anything.

I sat up in bed,
panting, my shirt soaked with sweat. The nightmare seemed as real as that
evening, six years ago, when my twin brother found me curled up in the corner of
an abandoned classroom, still sobbing and wanting to die.

But I was alive. He
had found me in time.

Unlike the boy from
the hallway, who they found the next morning, sprawled on his bathroom floor
with his stomach full of pills from his mother’s medicine
cabinet.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

In honor of Valentine's Day and all things romantic, my e-book "MASTER OF EMOTION" will be available for only $.99 on Smashwords and Amazon during the month of February.

I love romance! I love it in my novels, my movies, my own writing, and especially in my marriage;) I'm a huge fan.

But as writers, it's a fine line we walk between "appropriate" and "titillating." We want our romantic scenes to be attention-getting. We want to emotionally engage our readers.

I'm often torn between pleasing a mother who wants me to "make the kissing scenes good" and keeping the scenes appropriate for my 12-year-old friends and 15-year-old daughter. So how much is too much?

Too much information can produce a physical response, a thrill that runs from your lips to your toes. At times, my temperature has significantly risen as I've finished reading a romantic scene from a "clean" novel. Although the feeling is pleasurable, do I want my young daughter to have the same response? And is it really appropriate for me either?

I've appreciated guidance lately from new guidelines from "For the Strength of Youth" on "Entertainment and Media," "Sexual Purity," and "Dating."

As I edited my new e-book "MASTER OF EMOTION" for final publishing, I actually cut a few scenes and moments that might have approached my line between"appropriate" and "titillating." Better safe than sorry, I decided. But my line might be different from someone else's. So what do you think? How did I do? If you haven't read "MASTER OF EMOTION," yet, you might want to take advantage of the $.99 price this month.

So, to you other "clean" writers out there: Where do you draw your line between "appropriate" and "titillating?" How do you balance creating an emotional response and a physical response?

Friday, December 16, 2011

I did it! I announced the release of my debut novel, Master of Emotion, last night. I think everyone who writes should e-publish at least one book, just for the learning experience. So here's the press release:

Beau’s getting loads of attention
lately. Whether he wants it or not. Even if it’s his worst nightmare.

When a reclusive teen
with the enhanced ability to read others’ emotions finds more teens with
similar powers, he must confront his fears before a budding romance and his
twin brother’s life fall into the hands of the devious doctor who created them
all.

All proceeds of this novel (after taxes
and tithing) will be donated to atax deductible charity benefiting my
nephew who has a severe, often life-threatening, form of Celiac Disease. See
his story at http://prayformarky.blogspot.com/ . You can also go into any America First branch (in
Utah) to make a Tax Free donation. The account is listed as, "Mark Jeanes
Charitable Donations Account".

If
you want it free, review it for me on your blog, Amazon, or
Goodreads. When you send me the post to huff_house@yahoo.com, I’ll send you a coupon code for a free book. (Unless, of course,
you want to make the charitable donation to my nephew’s charityJ)

This
is the same novel that was a Quarterfinalist
in the 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards under the previous name of
“Walls.”

Here’s another reason to read it—check out my experiment. Movies have soundtracks. Why
not novels?

Within
the text of the novel, when you find something that looks like this:

I
invite you to go follow the link and go to the internet and listen to one of Secondhand Serenade’s songs that fit the
emotion of that moment in the novel. I’ve included a website address or two
where you might be able to listen to the full song.

He
stood at the end of the crowded middle school hallway, his lifeless eyes boring
a hole into me. Eyes of the walking dead. Body of any other pre-teenager. Everyone
around us hurried and bustled, completely unaware of him.

He
staggered toward me, his head hung low and the hood of his sweatshirt now
shrouding his face. Methodically, his feet dragged with every step, as if he
forced them on, using perpetual motion to push down the hall. He walked like a
pallbearer carries the casket of his dead mother.

I
wanted to run, to hide, to get as far away from the school as I could, but my
feet had sunk down into the tiles of the hallway as if I wore cement shoes.
They wouldn’t even budge. Not even a single crack.

He
adjusted the strap of his backpack as we passed. I stood there, unable to move,
as the boy’s exposed hand brushed against my bare shoulder. The touch only
lasted a millisecond, but it hit me with the force of a collision that ripped
through me and doubled me over.

My
chest was imploding. Darkness filled my head and my limbs, the pit of my
stomach, and choked down my throat.

“Sorry,”
he mumbled as passed.

The
hallway pushed in on me, squeezing me like a python suffocating its prey, but
the world felt distant, like all its inhabitants had turned their back on
me.The darkness consumed me, seeped
through my skin like thick, cold tar. It filled me with uncontrollable grief
and isolation that weighed down my whole frame and soul. I could feel my eyes
drying, cracking, from the months of crying the boy had endured. My whole body
wanted to escape itself.

I
couldn’t live like this. There had to be a way out. I would do anything to make
this feeling stop.

I
clutched my chest, holding my insides in.

Anything.

I
sat up in bed, panting, my shirt soaked with sweat. The nightmare seemed as
real as that evening, six years ago, when my twin brother found me curled up in
the corner of an abandoned classroom, still sobbing and wanting to die.

But
I was alive. He had found me in time.

Unlike
the boy from the hallway, who they found the next morning, sprawled on his
bathroom floor with his stomach full of pills from his mother’s medicine
cabinet.

Friday, November 18, 2011

He stood at the end of the crowded middle school hallway, his lifeless eyes boring a hole into me. Eyes of the walking dead. Body of any other pre-teenager. Everyone around us hurried and bustled, completely unaware of him.

He staggered toward me, his head hung low and the hood of his sweatshirt now shrouding his face. Methodically, his feet dragged with every step, as if he forced them on, using perpetual motion to push him down the hall. He walked like a pallbearer carries the casket of his dead mother.

I wanted to run, to hide, to get as far away from the school as I could, but my feet had sunk down into the tiles of the hallway as if I wore cement shoes. They wouldn’t even budge. Not even a single crack.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack as we passed. I stood there, unable to move, as the boy’s exposed hand brushed against my bare shoulder. The touch only lasted a millisecond, but it hit me with the force of a collision that ripped through me and doubled me over.

My chest was imploding. Darkness filled my head and my limbs, the pit of my stomach, and choked down my throat.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as passed.

The hallway pushed in on me, squeezing me like a python suffocating its prey, but the world felt distant, like all its inhabitants had turned their back on me. The darkness consumed me, seeped through my skin like thick, cold tar. It filled me with uncontrollable grief and isolation that weighed down my whole frame and soul. I could feel my eyes drying, cracking, from the months of crying the boy had endured. My whole body wanted to escape itself.

I couldn’t live like this. There had to be a way out. I would do anything to make this feeling stop.

I clutched my chest, holding my insides in.

Anything.

I sat up in bed, panting, my shirt soaked with sweat. I reminded myself that my twin brother had found me that evening six years ago, curled up in the corner of an abandoned classroom, still sobbing and wanting to die. But I was alive. He had found me in time.

Unlike the boy from the hallway, who they found the next morning, sprawled on his bathroom floor with his stomach full of pills from his mother’s medicine cabinet.

ob·ses·sion[uhb-sesh-uhn] –noun 1. the domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, desire, etc. 2. the idea, image, desire, feeling, etc., itself. 3. the state of being obsessed.

WRITING REQUIRES OBSESSION. LIFE REQUIRES OBSESSION.

The trade of authorship is a violent and indestructible obsession. George Sand

The work is a calling. It demands that type of obsession. John Pomfret

The creative habit is like a drug. The particular obsession changes, but the excitement, the thrill of your creation lasts. Henry Moore

The obsession required to see a feature through from concept to release is not a rational thing to do with your brief time on this planet. Nor is it something to which an intelligent person should aspire. Yahoo Serious

What moves those of genius, what inspires their work is not new ideas, but their obsession with the idea that what has already been said is still not enough. Eugene Delacroix

Obsession led me to write. It's been that way with every book I've ever written. I become completely consumed by a theme, by characters, by a desire to meet a challenge. Anne Rice

The first four months of writing the book, my mental image is scratching with my hands through granite. My other image is pushing a train up the mountain, and it’s icy, and I’m in bare feet.Mary Higgins Clark

People can get obsessed with romance, they can get obsessed with political paranoia, they can get obsessed with horror. It's isn't the fault of the subject matter that creates the obsession, I don't think. Adam Arkin

Without obsession, life is nothing. John Waters

Cure for an obsession: get another one. Mason Cooley

Obsession is an attractive thing. People who are really, really interested and good at one thing and smart are attractive, if they're men. Meryl Streep

Love is an obsession. It has that quality to it. But there are healthy obsessions, and mine is one of them. Pamela Stephenson

Just make sure your obsession is the Write ... Oops ... I mean Right One.DeAnn Ogden Huff

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About Me

"Words mean things." It's one of my husand's favorite sayings. I love words and how they fit together so beautifully to paint a picture in my mind. I've always loved to read, but a few years ago I rediscovered a love of writing. So now I'm not only a wife, mother of 8, a woodworker, and a tax accountant. I'm also a writer. Who knew?